Enough For Now
by Ellie 5192
Summary: Sneakers [1992]. Bishop/Liz. Martin Brice contemplates his new life while Martin Bishop wonders just how much trouble Liz will let him get away with. A study in split personalities. One-shot.
1. Enough for Now

**Enough For Now**

**Sneakers [1992]. Bishop/Liz. Martin Brice contemplates his new life while Martin Bishop wonders just how much trouble Liz will let him get away with. A study in split personalities. **

She looks at the computer chip in his hand, the playful smirk on his face, his shoulders looking free of a weight she never realised he had been carrying. Although, that's not true, because she knew. It was the weight that had finally pushed her away – had finally pointed her feet towards the door as she admitted that no, she couldn't do this with him and no, she wasn't made of the same stuff, and no, love is not enough. It is very rarely enough. And he'd let her go – made her go, really – because running away was all he knew how to do with this burden on his back. So she knew, in the square of his shoulders and the flick of his eyes, that there was a weigh on him she could not see, could not share. But she never guessed the difference it would make to see him without it – to see him as _Brice_. How strange, to see this new man with his new name before her, and yet still see her Martin; unchanged, smiling, Martin, just as he always was with her. They have hardly changed at all.

_Lying side by side in bed, naked under the sheet, calm and watching, he tells her his name. She repeats it back to him, unfamiliar on her tongue but not surprising. She had been the one to ask him. She had been the one to figure it out; put piece A in slot B and get a finished puzzle in her hand. A completed equation. All he had to do was give her the variables. _

_Lying side by side in the dark, sweat cooling on their skin, the echo of her 'I love you' surrounding him, he tells her his name and feels his heart thump in his ears, the gravity of it aching him. She rolls into him and nuzzles his shoulder, and then kisses his skin, and then falls into a quiet sleep._

_In the morning she calls him Bishop with a secret smile, a name she's never used before, and that is enough for now._

Of course it would be this one mess which brings her back. Of all things, this is one comfort she cannot deny him. _Because it is my name!_ had screamed John Procter, and indeed, because it is his name. It is enough to consider this whole adventure worth it, to know that he finally, wonderfully, walked away clear of the past that has followed him and haunted him in equal measure. His eyes are shining as he flicks the chip in his hand and then fists it into his pocket once more, never looking away. She can't help but smile back, knowing and happy. She is happy for him. She is very happy to be alive, that's for sure. She's not completely recovered from the whole ordeal (music classrooms never did this to her nerves, and that's why she will go back, eventually). But the glint in his eye and the playfulness in his smile is enough for now.

_You didn't ask for anything_, he says, his face no longer looking surprised but instead sporting that dawning sort of understanding that had begun when she'd first refused and then held his gaze. No, she didn't ask for anything. She'd just waved them off and grinned at him. And now they're standing in front of each other, the last of the gang to leave, the familiar loft dark and little bit cold without life pulsing through it.

_What could I possibly ask for_, she replies, her arms crossing over herself with a flippant shrug, like she wouldn't like to be on a beach somewhere herself right now. _Just give my cut to a nice charity or two._

_Is there really nothing_, he asks again, whisper quiet, his eyes bearing into her in that agonisingly familiar way.

_Bish-_

She cuts herself short with a self-reproachful smile, sheepish and pleased in the same breath. He is not Bishop anymore, and for all that means she can't decide if she is elated for the end of his lifelong search or in the throws of mourning for a person who may just cease to exist if she blinks too long. But perhaps he's not ready to fully let that man go either, because he seems to realise something, and somehow he finds space between them to invade. He steps just fractionally closer. His hand comes up to rest against her cheek, and despite herself she silently sighs and closes her eyes, accepting the gesture and allowing it to permeate her.

_It's still me, Liz_, he whispers, his lips only a breath away from her brow, his eyes still somehow watching her. She can feel it, though she doesn't look at him.

_For how much longer_, she whispers back.

_She's sitting next to him on the couch, her bare legs over his lap as his hands run smooth patterns over them, his head on the back of the cushions, rolled to one side to watch her. Her arm is along the back of the couch, her hand brushing his hair back, nails curling into his scalp in a way that almost puts him to sleep. Only three of her shirt buttons are done up. He's just relaxing and enjoying the view._

_What would you do, she asks, if you ever got to go back to being Martin Brice?_

_He is momentarily startled by the question, both because it comes from nowhere and because he has never allowed himself to really dwell on it. He certainly doesn't think about it when he's wrapped up in her. The thought of just leaving and becoming someone different – himself perhaps, but still different – is unfathomable when he looks at her and sees… something. Something tangible that they haven't yet laid claim to. _

_I'm just curious, she adds, her hand continuing its ministrations, her eyes open and clear and unafraid of his answer. Is that because she doesn't think he'd leave, or because she would come with him? He can't tell. Not yet, anyway. _

_I don't know, he answers truthfully, because he doesn't, because it's a pipe dream. Because getting his name back would mean more than just exoneration, and it would entail more than just walking back into a life he left behind as a boy. It would mean relinquishing this too, and how do you make one man disappear and pick up another without causing the same problems you started with. _

_Maybe open a bookshop, he quips instead. _

_She takes his answer with a disbelieving laugh, before launching herself into his lap fully and smothering any further conversation with sweet kisses. The rose hasn't yet worn off for her, he thinks briefly, and I pray it never does. Her happiness is enough for now._

_I don't know what you want me to say_, he says to her, his mouth coming to rest at her hair line, right near her temple. It is telling that she allows him to be this close, and he wonders if she thinks this is goodbye.

_Say you will be happy, Martin_, she says. _Say that this is enough, now_.

He lets out a breath, almost a relieved sigh, and finally closes the gap between them, the hand on her cheek sliding along to hold the back of her neck while his other arm goes around her back and holds her close. Her arms unfurl themselves and cover his ribs, her hands splayed on his back, her cheek pressed to his chest.

_You never call me Martin_, he says lightly, gently, kindly.

_What else would you have me call you now_, she rasps in return, her fingers gripping just that fraction tighter.

He smiles into her neck and rubs her back comfortingly. _I don't think Martin Bishop is quite finished getting up to mischief_, he says, his smile turning to a grin when he feels her stiffen under his hands. She is catching on, he thinks.

_And Martin Brice, _she questions, her voice reedy and thin, and so unlike the Liz he knows that he's momentarily startled. He squeezes her just a little before pulling back, his hands cupping her shoulders, his whole face smiling at her, which puts her a little at ease, and that's a start. Her hands rest on his hips, fingers clutching lightly at the material under them. He takes a moment to hold her eyes, and then looks her over, the tiny differences since the last time they were this close. It was not so long ago, but now it feels like forever.

_Martin Brice is thinking of opening a bookshop_, he says.

The smile that spreads across her face, from her crinkling eyes to the white of her teeth, makes his next decision all the easier. Makes all the decisions half formed in his mind come together to form a solid plan. He may just be crazy after all, but he has two names to work with now, and one of them is a clean slate; a fresh start.

_Maybe a music bookshop,_ he adds, smiling at her. His expression implores her to see what he's asking.

_You don't know the first thing about music_, she accuses, rolling her eyes. Of course she understands what else is going on in this conversation. Her hands are holding him that tiny bit tighter, her body pressed one inch closer. She promised herself that she and Bishop were not getting back together, but this is not Bishop asking her these things. She's not sure if that makes her just as much of a fraud, willing to entertain the idea of living with one man while another gets into the same old trouble. Two men, one Martin. How in the hell did this become her life, she thinks. MIT said nothing of aliases and gun fights and high speed chases with a blind man, and getting back together. She is a music teacher, not a thief, not even a 'security technician'. But then, that's exactly what he's offering her now. That is precisely what he is saying; she is not part of this world of espionage and dumpster diving and cameras and passwords; as much as she is fond of them all, she belongs in a room full of students, teaching them the finer points of Brahms.

_Maybe with piano lessons upstairs,_ he says, ignoring her incredulity and pressing on.

The image becomes more rounded – fuller in her mind – as she imagines a Victorian terrace house, with two, maybe three levels, a book shop down on the street front with rooms upstairs big enough to teach privately. It's idyllic, though she doesn't think she could give up her place at the formal school and do it full time. But three days a week, maybe, she could…

_And, you know, an office in the back, for all that mischief,_ he finishes, cocking his head to the side. He almost looks apologetic, but that is the price. If they do this, there will be no half-way. Half-way is why they didn't work the first time. Or the second. If they do this – and given she has yet to let him go and his hands have slowly worked their way to where her shoulders meet her neck, he thinks they just might be doing this – then he will have to remain two men. He will have to be Bishop, with his security business and slightly shady group of friends, and he will have to be Brice the quiet bookstore owner, with his clean record and his little terrace house, a study in the back room and a piano upstairs. Liz can't be a part of this world, no, but now he has a chance to be a part of hers.

_He tries not to flinch as the door closes. A quiet click – Liz is hardly the type of woman to scream and slam doors, no. Just a quiet little click of the lock. He closes his eyes against it anyway, because it hurts just as much; aches him just as much to push her away with neither a bang or a whimper. _

_And he understands, he really does. This last one got a little close – close to her; nothing is too close for the boys, but for Liz, who only wanted a quiet dinner date, who shouldn't receive threats from shell corporations that dislike the results Bishop gives them. Liz, who is brilliant but has absolutely no desire to step over the line, to gain a record, to sit on any FBI radar. To attract attention from anyone who might hurt her._

_And in the end he hurt her anyway. He did it for her own good, is what he will always tell himself on the days he misses waking up next to her._

_I can only receive so many threats before I start to take them a little more seriously, she had said. And he had agreed, because he won't risk her life for the sake of next week's rent money. _

_Because not everybody that needs high security is going to use it for good. And not everybody plays by the rules. And he needs to make a living and take the clients who will pay, not the ones with upstanding morals, and that's true for anything, but especially in high tech computers. In state of the art security systems. He can't begrudge her need for normality and peace. And he knows that no matter how hard he tries, she won't find that with him. They tried it. Then they tried it a second time. Fool me once, as they say. _

_No, he doesn't blame her for wanting a quiet life as a music teacher, which is why he doesn't follow her this time. He watches the closed door, but he doesn't follow. And anyway, he knows where to find her if he really needs to. But he'll give her the space she wants, because it's the right thing to do. He can do the right thing occasionally, when it matters. That has to be enough for now._

Her hand leaves his waist and lands gently on his cheek, her eyes opening and studying him. It's always a little disarming – she has such an unwavering look. But he's being perfectly serious about this plan. He can make this work. Martin Bishop can live the crazy life. Martin Brice can come home every night. And anyway, what's the point of having a shiny new record with nobody to share it with.

_Can you really live like that_, she asks, running the backs of her fingers over his chin. _Two lives in one._

It's on the tip of his tongue, and he almost says it, and though his eyes must give him away – she gasps a little, just a tiny little sound – he doesn't say what he wants to. _Yes_, he replies instead. _But… could you?_

Which is the more important question anyway. He can very easily split himself in half, but is half enough for her? Is it fair for him to even ask? She won't be in danger, no, but he still might, because as much as the boys have sworn off the hard stuff it's only a matter of time before the next great gig comes along and is too tempting to give up. They are cut from the same cloth, him and his club, and is it right to expect her to deal with him walking through the door with the occasional black eye for the sake of his side life. Or worse. They've proven to be capable of much worse. What if that all comes trickling back in, one bad day at a time.

_This job, I can't-_

_Bishop_, she whispers, smiling at herself because there really is no other name for him. _It was never the job I hated. _

_They don't yet know that things will get bad. For the moment she is content to offer him a harbour in the doubt. Having learned his secret – the only one that he has willingly told, even among the guys – she knows how precious it is to guard, and she holds it close as she holds him, knowing that he has no escape. Knowing that he has lived half his life in the shadows, half of it in fear of being found, and with the added guilt of Cosmo's death over his head. _

_She can't stand that he feels trapped in his own life. Nobody should feel that way. And yet her motives are not totally altruistic. If he gains some measure of comfort by staying with her and waking with her and practically living in her little apartment up on the hill, well… she gets some comfort out of that too._

_She crawls into bed next to him, sliding sensuously across the sheets, and he turns his head and smiles as she inches closer and closer. She cannot make his life better, and she wishes his job was easier. But they have these moments, and for now that is enough._

_I can't make you any promises, Liz,_ he mutters, his hands rising to gently cup her jaw, his thumbs moving over her cheeks. _I can only do my best._

And that seems like enough for now, because she smiles again, deeply, and doesn't move away when he leans in to kiss her. Just before his lips touch hers she stops him without causing distance, and looks him in the eye. This close, they're cross-eyed at each other, which makes her next comment that little more ridiculous.

_This doesn't mean we're back together._

And he laughs, and he kisses her. He half expects her to take his hands and push them away, and step back, and then leave. But she leans into him instead, and though they are tentative and restrained in a way they never were before, it feels rich under his palms and warm from his fingertips to his toes. He can feel her lips smiling under his.

This is definitely enough.


	2. Another and the Same

_This was supposed to be a drabble. Oops. Consider this a semi-sequel to my other Liz/Martin story, Enough For Now. Total fluff, with content lovingly borrowed from Erasmus Darwin's "The Botanic Garden A Poem in Two Parts. Part 1: the Economy of Vegetation". _

**Another and the Same**

Did you know that the grandfather of Charles Darwin wrote a poem in which he described the theory of the Big Bang and the Big Crunch? It's true, he did, he wrote a poem in which he describes the splendour of the stars swirling and changing, starting young and then growing old. Likens them to the plants in a field or perhaps a hanging garden – to all times there is a season, I suppose is what he was saying. I like that thought. I know it sounds romantic, especially for me, but in a world that can be so precise to calculate and yet populated with such complex creatures, it is nice to know that everything will fall into place. That there is an order that we cannot always see, but that will become apparent in time. Not even the stars themselves can escape it.

It is a stunning thought, I think – this idea that the entire universe is not exempt from the feeling of being flung far and wide only to be pulled back once more with such force – such overwhelming gravity – that it collides with itself and then changes again; is born into something new and different and yet also completely wonderful. I've always liked the theory of the Big Crunch. It has a synchronicity to it as mesmerising as Fibonacci; as beautiful as Euler's equation. It explains the unexplainable.

That's what he is to me.

I am flung away, and yet in time, inevitably, I am drawn back. And we collide together, more spectacularly than before and yet in a way wholly familiar to me. And then from the wreckage we become something new. Something equally wonderful, so that I pine for the old days and yet revel in these new ones. Take comfort in the familiar slope of his shoulder and the firmness of his body next to mine, but bask in the glow of his freedom, and our new life, and this little Victorian terrace house, with the downstairs kitchen half renovated and my new piano installed in the front parlour.

We were not ready for this life back when I first fell in love with him. I did not understand how to love him then, and he did not understand that I would not join his little crew; would not sacrifice my principles. We were so mad for each other that we never took the time to learn each other. Never stopped to consider how twenty or thirty years would look in our holding pattern. It was quick, frenetic, and heartbreaking. And then again, exactly the same but a year older, for the same reasons but in a new time. It fell into the same push and pull that I endured the first time, and ended with that final walk out his door. It was a large crash and a sudden silence.

But I think we're ready now. Or, at least, I certainly hope we are. I paid half the deposit on this place, after all. We have learned from the last time, determined to make sure that this will work. I know what his life looks like from the inside, now, and he has helped me retain myself. I have kept my music. I teach, just as I've always loved.

We are the same as we were, and yet entirely different. We are happy, and vibrant, and full of life, but we have shed the innocence of the past, and the ignorance and the lies. Watching him is like rediscovering a forgotten memory; like seeing something that feels familiar but you've never lived before. It's like déjà vu. It's magnificent.

_Headlong, extinct, to one dark center fall,__  
><em>_And Death and Night and Chaos mingle all!__  
><em>_— Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm,__  
><em>_Immortal Nature lifts her changeful form,__  
><em>_Mounts from her funeral pyre on wings of flame,__  
><em>_And soars and shines, another and the same._


End file.
